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Other Magic	By : starry-pseudonym Category: HP Canon Characters paired with Original Characters > Het - Male/Female Views: 962 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This story - my very first - is compliant up to the start of the Half-Blood Prince. I do not own Harry Potter or any canon references. The story within is purely for entertainment, noncommercial purposes.

Chapter List
- 4
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- 6
Author’s Note: I realize this is a painfully slow burn. I haven’t written one of these before, and I am still figuring out pacing. I plan for the next few chapters to progress the story at a decent clip.
Night cast an ominous shroud of storm-grey green on the meticulously pruned landscape of Malfoy Manor. Inside, there wasn’t much more light to be shed, in the chambers Scabior now found himself, or from the conversation at hand.
“Well done,” hissed the dark-haired witch with crazed eyes from across the expanse of the mahogany dining table. She was leaning over it, no doubt in Scabior’s mind to assert her authority in the absence of the one who summoned them. The flickering candles lining the damask-wrapped walls brightened nary a kind feature on the woman’s obscured-by-curls face.
The man seated beside Scabior released an amused growl from behind his sharp-toothed smirk. Scabior was convinced that was as much vocal variety as Greyback could muster, his primitive disposition conveying as much coherence as a drooling infant.
Just as Scabior was readying to speak – a nice thank you where’s our money was in order – his mouth falling open with a finger raised, she continued.
“The Dark Lord wishes for another task to be done.”
Vague as always, but He was the only one hiring these days. Scabior leaned back, that pointed finger easing into a little dig with his thumb in thought.
Bellatrix could sense his skepticism (it was one of his defining traits), a twitch in her nose the result of her growing ire.
“And only upon its completion,” she spat, “will you receive your due compensation for this latest deed.” Seeing both men attempt to constrain their anger was a blissful sight, and she smiled deviously as she straightened her stance.
“Then we are in agreement. Greyback, meet Lady Malfoy,” the bizarre formality of her sister’s title was not lost to Scabior, “at Borgin and Burke tomorrow at sundown. She and the young master will need an escort.” The notoriously cruel witch turned her attention to him, and whatever unhinged thoughts were swirling about her head seemed to drip in spades from her wide smile.
It was the three of them in the great hall of the Malfoy Manor, but even with the inordinate amount of space between them Bellatrix had a way of stifling the air in any room. Scabior knew there were others in wait outside the closed double doors, true Deatheaters who had earned their rank for more devious and deadly duties than he had amassed in his short time of employment.
He was just here for the score – a smuggler in a previous life, with a penchant for thievery, gambling, and the occasional snatch-and-grab. It wasn’t the most lucrative of professions, but his life was his own, or so it had been. A job gone awry had landed him in Azkaban, and thus on the radar of the accruing army congregating just outside in the foyer. To them, criminals were the lifeblood to what their cause required – no scruples to evading the law, with the occasional viciousness.
The difference was, they reveled in it. He saw it – the violence, the torture, the death – as a necessary (and sometimes unnecessary) means to an end. His pure lineage allowed him a place at this table, but that was the extent of it up to now. The longer he stayed at that table, in the company of the likes of Bellatrix Lestrange, the easier it was becoming to see himself amidst the punishing rank and file.
“For you, dear Scabior, an opportunity.”
Bellatrix seized her wand and flew Greyback out of the room with the door slamming shut behind him. It was a split-second, but plenty of time for her to pique his intrigue she was sure, now that they were alone.
“When the Ministry falls,” as they both knew those plans were set in motion well before the Dark Lord’s return, “we will need someone to bring in the … less than desirable. We can’t have mudbloods and blood traitors in the new world the Dark Lord is building, can we?”
While his mind should have been on what sounded as a promotion and the monetary benefits likely to be associated, mention of such a role had him picturing the girl imprisoned at his flat.
And what of her? She was neither mudblood nor blood traitor – she was straight up muggle. And where did they fall within the new world order? A day ago he’d have viewed her kind no differently than a pack mule, good for labor but hardly civilized or clever enough to be considered a wizard’s equal.
His mind wasn’t exactly changed on that perception, but she – he never got her name, because why would he – posed a crack in the foundation of their assumed superiority. She had found them, and that did not align with the narrative.
“Can we?” she seethed, her thin, deceptively cruel hands slammed onto the table; clearly his lack of response was not what she expected.
He straightened, though it was next to impossible for him not to somehow lean on something, this time the arm of the chair.
“No, we can’t,” he rejoined. “So then, you’ll be needin’ us to what, snatch ‘em up? Bring ‘em to you for questioning, and …”
The and was understood. What purpose did a mudblood serve other than servitude to their betters? Scabior could tell from the witch’s broadening, ugly smile that she was looking forward to the and.
“Gather your men, and when the Minister of Magic is dead, we’ll have our reckoning.”
His smile was nearly imperceptible; he was waiting for what he wanted to hear.
“And you will have a payment waiting for you in Gringott’s as high as a pile of horned tail shite,” she pledged with a sordid lick of her rotted incisors.
“Great,” he jumped up from his chair. “Fifty galleons a snatch, the higher the profile, the higher the price, and we don’t even need to shake on it,” he smirked. Negotiation was his territory, he was suited for the razzle-dazzle such quick exchanges obliged. Impersonal, and he got what he wanted – always.
“We’ll be in touch,” Bellatrix slinked down into her chair finally, and then with a wave of her hand, the doors to the antechamber opened. The milling-about men turned as Scabior wasted no time in departing the demented witch’s presence, shuffling past their uniformly cloaked forms so that he could head out past the perimeter wards.
He felt dirtier than usual as he kicked at the polished-stone path that led to the wrought-iron gate. Doing business with Deatheaters was not where he would have seen himself five years ago, but prison and desperate times had a way of changing a man.
The hole he was digging for himself had grown exponentially deeper tonight. He was in the Dark Lord’s employ for the long haul now. If the payout proved to be as profitable as that sick bitch promised, though, then it would be worth it. His pockets had holes in them, what with the insurmountable debt still suspended over his head, but there was an actual chance of sewing those rips closed at the end of this.
Now outside the gate, he remembered the snag to his plan. He was no closer to figuring out what to do when he returned to his flat in London. A new plan was forming though, and in the instant he apparated back, he tossed another incarcerous spell at his bed where he left her hours earlier.
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- 6
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Other Magic